


two of us

by davesstrand



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davesstrand/pseuds/davesstrand
Summary: you and i have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Kudos: 15





	two of us

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the band's song of the same name. it's the translation of original russian fic.

**we're on our way home, we're on our way home, we're going home.**

***

" _Close the window. Don't let the draught in._ "

And it was as if Paul felt a strange voice echo through his room — but he was completely alone. There's no soul.

He's used to sitting in a chair like this, smoking one cigarette after another and listening to a voice that he wouldn't want to hear for many, many years to come — he knows that a man who has already ascended to heaven will pull the right strings of his soul when better times come. But they need to live up to them.

He didn't have time to say goodbye to John completely. With John, known as Lennon. With John being trumpeted from every crevice — as loud as it was possible. It was an unbearable noise, blowing Paul's mind with its loudness.

And he hated that noise. And he wanted the voices to never stop.

There was another depressing and irritating circumstance — the world in which he now had to exist; in which there was no one. Except this low purring voice, which for a long, long time frightened him with its solemn hum.

Now John was singing about death. And the death songs were only heard in Paul's head — and these songs were usually thrown into the mind by the wrong structures.

That's it. Memories are bullshit. 

But, as the voice had told him, Paul closed the window — it was really blowing, and he was already getting cold. And John must be cold, too.

And John still keeps him safe. He protects him in a way that Paul himself couldn't protect.

So, in some thin shell, Paul will remain until the end of his existence. If he would ever manage to find out that there's someone else around.

..and if there's a God, even with him it'll be much better than lying in this common grave with John. He doesn't want to share it with him.

And they once exchanged one common vow, anc according to that, they should be buried under the same ground, shoulder to shoulder, soul after soul. And with their shadows merged into one; so that even their voices should merge into one.

"You're right, Johnny. It's getting cold."

***

"Don't rush to turn off the light. I'm reading."

Paul looks at him and feels vaguely uneasy, as if sparks are being showered on him. And then he gets scared. And then it starts to hurt.

So then _it hurts_ , _it hurts_. It hurts painfully. He wants to shrink back in his chair, and then fall into nowhere.

Here's John. He's sitting opposite Paul, clutching a cigarette in his hand and reading. Or rather, he's trying to pretend he's focused, that he's immersed. But in reality, he thinks about when his last night on earth will come to him. And it's not because he's afraid to die. But if it's about death, he just can't think of anything else.

The last thing Paul wants to think about right now is what's going to happen where you can't turn back anymore. He doesn't even want to think about when lady Fortune herself will turn away, when she will go in the opposite direction from all of them. There's always no knowing or guarantee what she will leave them and what she will force them to face.

For this reason alone, Paul moves closer to John, _deliberately_ touching his shoulder, _deliberately_ placing his hand on top of John's. But it's not safe to be with him right now. And it's not that Paul really cares.

He _deliberately_ presses his lips to his neck, perhaps for the last of a million times.

"You're right. As always, love. There's no need in turning off the light that early."

***

"It's pretty hot in here. Why don't you open the window, love?"

John was standing behind him in his trousers. Paul swallowed, trying to ignore the feeling of recent intimacy between them. The tension between them now seemed out of place.

This was not a physical desire. Rather, John simply kept his feelings on the hook for the time being so that they didn't tear him in half. Both of them.

The bruises on Paul's neck and collarbone won't go away until at least next week. Needless to say, John loved them. 

And they don't have much time. And, if anything, it will probably be wasted. Now he can smile at John and say a few words. He can also deceive himself with self-suggestions. He would hear them say that everything will come to stability very soon. But it's him, Paul, who's destroying all the pillars of stability in their relationship.

It was he who now turned and kissed John with such an effort, with such desperate fervor, that he almost went mad. He knew for a fact that John was smiling, as if it's pushing him to do something he couldn't afford.

"Agreed. Then why don't we go out on the balcony? Do you have an extra cigarette?"

***

"So if I'd ever say goodbye to you, will you let me go then?"

John's singing a single song about death again, which Paul had already memorized by his soul and heart. It always makes him return to the familiar sphere of the universe until his feels his teeth gritted. A little more, and the world will cease to please him.

John's resting his head on his bare chest, and Paul's running his fingers through his hair with a mechanical, practiced movement that he's already used to. It's calming. Not for long, though, but it has its own effect.

His heart stops pounding mercilessly at the moment when it seems to him that something terrible is about to happen. One moment it seems to be beating, and suddenly it'll die. And how to drown out this whistling roar, if there is pain in the chest and the body is exhausted from hopeless longing? And most importantly, no one hopes for anything but their own will and luck.

"With no doubt, I will be the last to speak, Johnny."

***

Every time he wakes up in a cold sweat. He says the same thing to Linda every time: " _it was only a dream, love, it doesn't matter_ ". And she's truly worried about him. And he, what a proud man, still doesn't get enough of her love; it just seems to him that it's not enough. It's not as big as the love he had with John.

And Paul really hates and condemns himself for it. Hates himself wholeheartedly for not believing in what happened, in the non-existence of his own body; for hearing a voice in his head for several days against his will, which he must forget, which he must brush away like an obsession.

But none of this is possible. Then humility is the only reasonable solution.

He wants to get rid of the idea that the blood is now on his hands, and not on someone else's. It was as if it was him who killed John, as if was him who pulled the trigger mercilessly.

..it was as if John was afraid of being in his shadow the most. And John is more than just a person. And John is the light that makes Paul close his eyes.

"Goodbye, Johnny. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

And at once, the voices had to stop. 

Paul was the last to speak.


End file.
